


"I don’t bloody well know what a Disney is"

by french_charlotte



Series: Other People's Choices: Draco's Side of the Story [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Teenage Love, But also realistic, Draco Malfoy is Clueless About Muggle Things, F/M, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Good Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts Sixth Year, PTSD symptoms, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Spy Draco Malfoy, Trauma, dramione - Freeform, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:28:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26827372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/french_charlotte/pseuds/french_charlotte
Summary: Draco returns from a rough Death Eater summons and finds solace and support in the arms of his girlfriend, Hermione. She helps him cope with the nightmares that come along with being a spy for the Order and they both dream up plans to pursue once the war is finally over.  Set mid-Sixth Year. Draco is temporarily living with Snape.This is fanfiction of fanfiction. A "missing chapter" from Jewelburns's story, "The Choices We Made". Set in Draco's POV. Third segment in the collection.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Series: Other People's Choices: Draco's Side of the Story [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914247
Kudos: 14





	"I don’t bloody well know what a Disney is"

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Choices We Made](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24726043) by [JewelBurns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JewelBurns/pseuds/JewelBurns). 



> This is a "missing chapter" from my sister's story, "The Choices We Made". It's a wonderfully written story that's worth a binge read with a lovely mix of genres. The original story is set in Snape and Harry's POV but with some solid Dramione and Draco time. I've got a few works for it that are exclusively in Draco's POV. As they're 'piggyback chapters' to complement the main storyline, they'll be published periodically when deemed appropriate timing. 
> 
> Warnings: Teenage awkward love-making (not explicit/no actual smut), mentions of abuse, trauma episode. 
> 
> Author Note: This is fanfiction and clearly breaks from canon. It would be super beneficial to read the main story. Even if you don't before reading this little slice of heaven, definitely check it out afterwards.

The moment his bedroom door shut, Draco did quick work - brilliantly fast, really - at setting up every silencing charm he knew. Thankfully, being raised in an oppressive manor where silence was necessitated, he was taught the value of silencing spells early on. Walls had the uncanny habit of growing ears and hearing words that weren’t meant to be heard. 

In his current case, his only crime was being victim to his own youthful age and vitality. And seeing an opportunity to have alone time with his girlfriend in a private bedroom was one he couldn’t let slip away. Pressing on opportunities was what separated the willful from the mundane. Every so often, life would bring chances ripe for the picking. Most people would see it and let it slip by, giving the excuse that they were waiting for the next opportunity to act on. Lesser people wouldn’t even recognize it. But a Slytherin? A Slytherin always pounced on a moment and bled it for all it was worth. 

And while he loathed how plain and poor the bedroom was, he at least feasted on the knowledge that it was  _ private _ . And after living in a boys dormitory for the past six years at Hogwarts, a private bedroom was worth more than its weight in gold. Especially when he had his girlfriend captured in his arms, her own wrapped around his waist. 

The class notes that she brought were tossed to his desk and wouldn’t be touched while she was there. No, Draco had much more important things to touch. 

“You look tired,” Hermione half-fretted, half-joked up at him after he broke their kiss that lingered just a little longer than usual. As much as he tried to hide the urgency of it, the need that he craved, she saw right through him. She always did. 

Was Draco tired? No, not really. He stopped feeling tired a month ago, when he’d forgotten what it felt like to be rested and fully awake. When he forgot the luxury of a full night’s sleep and couldn’t ignore the weighted burdens on his shoulders. How could someone be tired if they had no other alternative? It was just life for him and he sundered himself of any thoughts that he could possibly recover. Back in the summer when he agreed to be a spy, prospects seemed so easy and simple then. Snape had lived a dual life for so long, a leg concretely pillared on each side, and hadn’t faltered or slipped. But maybe Snape wasn’t subject to the same closet of atrocities that the teen was; Snape was older and in more control of his life, or as much control as he could bewitch himself to think. The Malfoy heir had never been an author of his destiny, had never made choices for himself and, on the current path he was directed down, he would never be given a chance. If he wasn’t a victim of circumstance, he was a victim to the fallout of it, hurt and injured by flying debris that took small yet profound chunks out of his shield of hubris and arrogance. 

Refusing to let the small chance with his girlfriend get tainted by the nightmares that nipped at his heels, Draco tightened his arms around her slender frame and guided her suavely towards the bed. “Wow, what a compliment. Well,  _ you _ look great. But you’d look even more great over here…” 

Her quiet laughs, the type that were breathy with want and girlish desires, drove him mad and made his trousers feel suddenly tight and uncomfortable. He wanted this, he wanted her, and he wanted the sweet abandon their time together could promise. In a way, maybe if he was in possession of more of a conscience, he would see it as wrongfully leveraging their relationship to benefit him in his time of brokenness. And maybe he would’ve felt bad for throwing himself so bodily into the lascivious kiss, or would have slowed her hands down in traveling over his body when the backs of her knees hit the side of the bed. 

Because as much as Draco wanted her, his craving wasn’t as innocent as her own. He needed the reaffirmation from her touch to ground him. To bring him back to reality and let him forget everything that had happened in the past few hours. He needed to recuperate from something that typically took years. He needed to accelerate a tragedy that only time could heal, but time was a resource no amount of money could afford. 

Their clothes were the first things to go. Her fingers proved more nimble than his own as she expertly unbuttoned his shirt, gracefully yanked it free from his trousers, and nudged it over the dramatic slopes of his shoulders. Picking up where she left off, and not breaking from their kiss, the blonde shrugged it off and let it fall limply where they stood. When it became his turn, he once again proved second to her masterful expertise. His fingers - larger than her own - slipped and fumbled with the buttons of her shirt, struggling so much that he eventually abandoned the kiss to look down at what he was doing. 

His fingers were shaking. 

Luckily, she didn’t notice. At least, not right then. She was too busy with slipping out of her shoes and socks, and began to work on his belt buckle. Her movements, unlike his own, were fluid and confident. Even in intimacy, her Gryffindor pride and bravery outshined his own practiced facility in the bedroom. Confidence was like intelligence to him; it riled him up in the best of ways, making his head feel heavy with lust so potent that he could forget his demons for a few minutes. 

And in those minutes, most of their clothes were haphazardly banished to random corners of the room. 

But the world came crashing back to him when they were left in bare essentials; he in his boxers and she in her undergarments. It was when he pressed his body flush against hers and wrapped his arms around her to begin fighting with the clasp on her bra that the perfectness of their time proved to be as fragile as it seemed. How ironic that the build up took so long but it could be shattered in seconds. It was a testament to how delicate intimacy truly was. 

Even among her many imperfections, Hermione was perfect in every way. She eagerly embraced him and, in a show of equal fervor and ardent desire, ran her hands up his naked back and caressed the valley between his shoulderblades. The world around him dissolved away in the blink of an eye, taking with it the love and affection their coupling was bringing, as his fingers turned numb on the bra clasp. The bedroom that was once his own was replaced with the grotesquely elegant decor in the manor guesthouse Rabastan staked as his property. And the warmth that had kindled in his being was chased with the horrid memories from only hours ago. 

The touch between his shoulderblades was warm but uninvited, caressing but not gentle, possessive but not affectionate. A horrible panic coiled in his stomach, gripping it so tensely he thought he’d be sick and all he could think of was the sudden desire to run. And if he couldn’t run, his body resolved to the next logical response: aggression. 

Draco’s hands were on her thin shoulders in seconds and roughly shoved her away from him with such force she would’ve stumbled back if not for his fingers that dug painfully into her soft skin. And in a disturbing turn of cosmic comedy, the world around him resumed its spin, bringing him back to the bedroom in time to see her face crushed with a look of betrayal and alarm. 

And though his fingers loosened, they didn’t let go of her. But neither did they draw her back in. No, he was caught in an ironic pendulum of wanting nothing more than space but also wanting to explain his erratic behavior and salvage his girlfriend’s feelings. “Hermione… I…” He felt the sting in his voice. But he couldn’t finish the sentence; what could he say? Looking down at her shoulders where his fingers were pressed in, he saw the rosy bloom of red marks, making his cocktail of emotions be joined with an unhealthy dose of regret. He hurt her when all she was trying to do was be there for him in the most vulnerable of times, when he needed her the most. 

The silence that spread between them would offer neither one of them satisfaction. She would contrive her own assumptions in its blankness, and he would continue to be tormented by his memories and sickened panic. The one good thing in his life was falling between his fingers like sand; tangible enough to feel but too fine and delicate for him to possibly hold onto. 

The Gryffindor deserved more. At the very least, she deserved an explanation. “Hermione…. I… I’m sorry. Sometimes it’s difficult…It’s nothing you did, I promise you that.” It sounded as inadequate as he felt. Draco felt he should’ve pulled her in close to console her that everything was well between them, that his caustic reaction was induced by a phantom interloper and nothing she could’ve known about. Because as much as she tried to be there for him, sensitively asking about his matters with the Order and the Death Eaters when his grey eyes would turn glossy and distant, he shuttered her out.

Looking back up to her face, Draco expected it to be filled with acrimony and resentment, and he wouldn’t have blamed her if it was. But he was shocked to find nothing of the sort. 

Her brows were scrunched together in the cutest of ways, making his heart break even more, and her russet eyes were pooled with understanding and sympathy. His hurt was reflected in her feminine features, so endearing and emotional compared to his normally closed-off attitude. How different they were, and yet so alike in the same breath. 

She blinked a few times, and he watched in muted intrigue as she gathered that Gryffindor courage to triumph over his Slytherin shrewdness. “Draco… why didn’t you go to classes today?”

There was stubbornness in that courage, he saw it immediately. Her strength was the type spoken of in legends, a single person harnessing the power of an army and running headfirst into battle to stir the bravery of their legions. Her tenacity was what attracted him the most to her, that unrelenting reserve of fortitude many saw as blockheaded stubbornness. And while he was subjected to it many times in the past, never before was it for his own good and wellbeing.

He wasn’t used to that. It wasn’t the Malfoy way to be so openly emotional. And it certainly wasn’t the Slytherin way.

“I can’t tell you,” he eventually replied in a quiet tone barely above a whisper.

But she wasn’t accepting it. “I’m not asking for Order secrets or minutes from Death Eater meetings. I’m asking why  _ you _ weren’t in classes today.” 

He didn't answer her. Instead he turned away, his head first and his shoulders second, looking at the unmade bed he’d rolled out of only an hour ago after suffering half a night of restless sleep. It was as messy and disheveled as his life. A year ago, everything seemed so pristine and perfect, from his impeccable grooming habits to his sterling future. But the kingdom he was set to inherit was sieged and stolen from him in a short set of months. His future stopped being something to look forward to; there was nothing promising in the future for him. The Order was going to hide him and his family to keep them safe. But at what cost? His life and everything he knew. That was the token he had to pay. 

She realized his silence  _ was  _ his response. Soft fingers brushed against the side of his cheek, pressing just enough to make him look back at her. 

“Do not shut me out now,” Hermione began in a firm voice that left little room for argument. Even when she saw the cloudiness in his stormy grey eyes signal that he was employing his Occlumency shields out of habit, she pressed harder. “Draco, tell me. And-and use as much ambiguity as you have to but don’t go through - whatever  _ this _ is - alone.” 

More of the sand filtered between his fingers as he desperately tried to catch it. But he couldn’t — not with digits so frantically spread and refusing to let her in. He’d lose her if he didn’t change something.

Sighing heavily, he sat on the edge of the bed and looked sourly at the platinum bracelet entombed around his wrist. “I can’t tell you not because of the Order- well, yes, because of the Order but that’s not the main reason.” He paused to see if she’d say something, anything, but she didn’t. She waited for him. And he had no doubt she’d keep waiting until curfew when she’d be forced to retreat back to the tower. “I can’t tell you because I don’t want you to look at me as… as lesser of a boyfriend.” 

The bed dipped beside him and in the corner of his eye, he saw her naked thigh beside his own. “Anything you do for the Order doesn’t make you lesser, Draco. It makes you  _ more _ .” A warm hand rested chastly on his shoulder, just enough to let her presence be known. “Stop trying to do everything yourself. You had to endure the acts alone. Don’t make yourself continue to suffer the memories alone, too.” 

He wanted to continue to exist in that stifling silence and keep her out. If not to protect himself, then to protect her. But there was truth in her words. “Can we just…lay together?” The Slytherin snorted. “I know that’s probably the most pathetic thing you expected when you came in here and I wouldn’t fault you if you—”

Hermione silenced him with a single finger pressed against his lips. She smiled gently at his insulted expression. “Yes, I would like that very much.” 

The bed wasn’t large and it wasn’t as luxurious as Draco would’ve wanted, but in that moment, it was perfect. The two wimpy pillows were shared between them as the teens faced one another, the dull cotton blanket and thin sheets drawn up to their waists. And though they remained in their undergarments and Draco would easily claim the sight of the Gryffindor to be the most enchanting he’d seen, his arousal was gone. 

They became entangled in each other’s arms and found rhythm in their gentle breaths. He relished the alluring scent of her strawberry shampoo and she clung to the spiced aroma of his cologne and musk. And the silence that blanketed them stretched from a few seconds to several minutes, neither discomforting nor relaxing. It simply was. And they simply existed right then and there, in the moment and with each other.

Draco could tell she wanted him to say something first, he felt her anticipation seep out between her relaxed sighs. The vibrancy of her strength was infectious, and he felt his own crumbled resolve become bolstered in its glory. And through it he found his voice.

“I promise I’ll tell you.” Her arms tightened around him in encouragement and support as he spoke slowly. “But I can’t tell you now. Or today. Or Merlin knows when but I give you my word that I will tell you. When all of this is over.”

For a few seconds, he worried it wouldn’t be enough, that his words were cheap replacements for the real thing - the truth- and she’d leave him. But the Gryffindor’s head slowly nodded, wrinkling the charcoal pillowcase. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

“I’m sorry for all of this,” Draco mumbled as he lifted his hand from her waist to slowly tease his fingers in and out of her frizzy hair. “I promise when this is over, when I’m not…” his eyes pointedly drifted to his left forearm, guiding her stare to the Dark Mark etched into his skin and soul, “...juggling allegiances, we’ll do something really brilliant together. Name anything and I’ll make it happen. Cost not an issue.”

They were passing by the tension, letting it fall to their backs, and she recognized the Slytherin’s cunning deflection. But it wasn’t ominous or self-servicing. It was helpful to them both, for they already agreed to revisit the stressful matter later on, when he was strong enough to face it. But at the very least, he recognized its existence and that was enough for her.

“Anything?” She arched a challenging brow.

He met it with a cavalier smirk. “Anything.”

Shoving herself up on an elbow, she grinned. “I want to go to Paris.” 

Easy enough. His own smile widened. “Convenient. My family has a winery chateau in Reims we can stay at.  _ Maison de Champagne Malfoy. _ ” He looked pleased with his perfected accent and blatant display of it. “And I just so happen to be fluent in French.”

“Of course you are,” she leaned in, brushing her lips teasingly against his own, waiting to see his reaction. And with the tension in their past, an understanding struck between them, he suddenly longed for her even more and tried to lean forward to collapse into a kiss. She pulled away at the last second. “But I should be specific. I don’t want to go to just any part of Paris. I want to visit Disneyland.”

Confusion immediately crawled over his face. Confusion and a bit of sadness that he was denied the kiss. It wasn’t just her physical attraction that made things stir in his boxers; it was her serenity and empathy, her ability to patiently understand that made him ache for her more. In those short moments, she did more for him than most had ever done in the past. And while he was expected to eventually divulge the truth to her, she empowered him by letting him choose when he was comfortable enough. It was a baby step, admitting there  _ was _ something to discuss, but a first step nonetheless.

She was brilliant and passionate and annoyingly stubborn all at the same time and he wanted her fiercely and-

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” He forced blood flow to the proper head to focus on her voice. 

The witch’s dark eyes glittered gleefully. But she seemed to recognize his shift in demeanor. If she didn’t notice from his flushed cheeks, she certainly couldn’t ignore what was happening beneath the blankets. “Disneyland.” 

Disneyland? His brows furrowed. “What’s that? I’ve never heard of it. And I’m pretty familiar with Paris. The Malfoys originally came from there, you know.” 

Hermione didn’t seem impressed with that tidbit of family history. Maybe recognizing that he was in a grisly battle with the bra before and taking pity on him, she reached behind herself and slowly - _ why so slowly _ \- began to work the clasp on the undergarment. “You’re familiar with  _ Wizarding _ Paris. Disneyland is a theme park made by Disney.” Her face crumpled in a look of fake sympathy. “Pity. You probably don’t know what Disney is either, do you?” 

“This is something muggle, isn’t it?” Draco didn’t stop the groan. 

“You said  _ anything _ .” 

Naturally, she’d point that out. “Anything that I’m feasibly capable of delivering on! I can’t… I don’t know anything about muggle Paris and obviously I don’t bloody well know what a Disney is.” 

Her hands finally came back triumphant. The bra loosened with slack immediately, and she gently slipped the straps off her shoulders and tossed it oh so casually to the floor. “First of all, it’s not  _ a _ Disney. It’s just… Disney. It’s a company that makes children’s movies. And they have theme parks! It’s like a carnival but better. With rides and restaurants and shows! Over the holiday, my dad told me about this new ride they opened last year called Space Mountain.” 

It was unfair. It was so unfair that she chose then to discuss this with him. Her top half completely naked, his grey eyes couldn’t decide what to settle on. Her face was the appropriate choice - clearly, she felt right then was the perfect time to make plans to holiday to a muggle theme park - but his teenage hormones were convincing his eyes to dip southerly every so often. 

Draco danced his fingertips over the gentle dip on her neck, feeling the pitter patter of her pulse. “Merlin, you honestly do have a death wish. All of these years, I thought it was Potter and Weasel stringing you along on their adventures. But no, you actually want to go to one of these death parks. I get that things have been rather tame for you this year compared to your normal constant brushes with death, but that doesn’t mean you go so far as to  _ pay _ for near death experiences.” 

The blonde sucked in an audible gulp of air when her warm hands pressed against his stomach, her thin fingers trailing over the shallow muscles toned from his years of Quidditch. They stopped when they reached the waistband of his boxers. “Do you even know what a theme park is?” She asked.

He frowned. “I know what a carnival is. Years ago, when I was a child, there was a carnival in one of the Muggle villages near the manor. I wanted to go but my parents told me awful stories of what happens there.” 

Hermione slipped her lower lip between her teeth to try to smother her smile. It didn’t work. He still saw her getting amusement at his expense. “What kind of awful stories?”

“No, I’m not telling you now. Looking for a reason to make fun of me, are you?”

“If they’re true,  _ awful _ stories, then why would I make fun of you, Draco?” The Gryffindor saw the sour look on his face mix with his overwhelming lust, a true fight between the mind and body. “And carnivals are… rather rubbish compared to a theme park so I believe some of those stories might be kind of true. But not Disneyland!” 

The blonde closed his eyes and tried to fight the good fight when her fingers teased at the lip of his boxers. Maybe it was the distraction of the conversation, the good-loving banter in her soft voice, but the previous nightmares from before were gone. When he opened his eyes, he leveled her a pointed look. “It’s still getting in metal contraptions run on eklectry -- 

“-- electricity --” 

“-- and no magic used whatsoever. It’s painfully barbaric! And I say painfully because it probably  _ is _ painful when it fails. Because without magic, it’s going to fail, mark my words.” She did that thing where she lifted her left brow and set her jaw; like a dragon’s belly heating up moments before letting out a breath of fire, this was Hermione Granger’s warning that she was settling in for the argument. 

“Draco…” 

Pushing himself up on a bent arm, the Malfoy heir carefully collected her hands and drew them from his waist. “I don’t belong in that world, Hermione. You know that. I don’t know anything about it and what I do know isn’t exactly that most inspiring of knowledge.” 

His arousal wilted as he thought of the horror stories his parents told him about muggle carnivals: metal machines and vehicles that collapsed on themselves, people crammed into cages attached to a large wheel that slowly tortured them as it rotated, obnoxious flashing lights and music, questionable use of hygiene considering they didn’t have any sterilizing charms…. 

And people actually  _ wanted _ to experience this level of depravity? 

Hermione considered him for a few seconds. “Do you want to learn?” 

He blinked. “Learn what?” 

“You said you don’t know anything about it. I’m asking you if you want to learn about theme parks and Disney and muggle Paris.” His expression must’ve given away his wanting to reject - fuck muggle insanity - for she changed her angle and pitch of her voice. “I’ve learned your world. Why don’t you want to learn mine?” 

If it was a year ago, before he became the Order’s newest spy and took the Mark under false pretense, before he rejected his lifelong notions of Pureblood supremacy, he would’ve had an answer immediately for her. The teen would’ve scoffed at the witch’s question and dished out some demeaning insults on the savagery of muggles. Why would he, a respectable pureblood son, ever want to reduce himself to  _ willingly  _ step into their world? They relied on inefficient machines and were uncouth and disgusting, he thought back then. But he didn’t think that anymore, did he? 

In the past nine months, since becoming a spy for the Order and learning about the efficacy of muggle healing from Harry, he couldn’t deny that he found some of their innovation interesting. They excelled at certain things that wizards did not; apparently they had an aggressive treatment for a so-called muggle disease while their own healers were still scratching their heads at it. 

It wasn’t limited to muggles if it was killing two of the most renowned wizards of their time. There was nothing ‘muggle’ about that.

Still, muggles were inept in so many walks of life. But then again, how would he know when he never even experienced their world? He was operating and reaching those conclusions based on his parents' morals. Those morals were once pristine and faultless, but now as he looked morosely down at his left forearm, he couldn’t help but question them. 

Looking back at her, Draco indulged himself a quick glimpse at her chest first. It was tragic that she chose  _ then _ to have this conversation. “You’re a witch,” he countered. “That’s not your world anymore than it is mine now. You learned this world because this is where you belong.” 

Had it been a year ago, he would’ve vomited at those words. But now all they did was stir a heat in his stomach in the best of ways. Especially when she wiggled her hands free from his grasp and returned them to teasing his abdomen. 

“I’m still  _ Muggle _ -born. And my parents are muggles.” 

That part was true. He didn’t have an argument against that. Really, he never stopped to think about Mister and Misses Granger at all since they started dating, which only stood testament to how divorced he was from the traditional pureblood ways. 

“You’re wrong, though,” he began, earning a questioning look from her. Neither one of them took well to that kind of accusation. “The Wizarding world isn’t  _ my _ specific world. Yes, we both exist in it but if you wanted to learn where I come from, that would require you to learn pureblood society. Which…” He snaked an arm around her waist and drew her against him, pressing their lower halves together to let his desires be known. “I have no interest in teaching you because then I wouldn’t be able to do this with you.” 

Her lips quirked back as that devious hand of hers wedged between their bodies and slipped beneath the hem of his boxers. When her warm fingers found him, his eyes closed and his brows scrunched in shocked pleasure, and he almost abandoned the conversation altogether. “Do what with me?” She asked sweetly. “This? Do purebloods not believe in laying with their boyfriends?” 

“That… not… marriage. Not before marriage.” Words felt clumsy and awkward, and he suddenly fumbled with merely trying to string together a sentence. “You are making this very hard.” 

“Yes, I can feel that.” 

But she took pity on him. Gradually rolling to her back, she tugged him along with those fantastic hands of hers and he eagerly obliged. The moments that happened after came as frantic and erratic as any set of teenagers in the midst of intimacy. Fierce kisses, shedding off the remaining undergarments, awkwardness in finding harmony with their limbs. 

“Do you have a potion?” She asked as he shifted his weight above her. 

That made him pause. And it acted like a bludger to their lovemaking rhythm. “Right. Yes. I do. Hold on.” 

It was in his trunk. At the very bottom of it. Because he brewed it in December when they planned on shagging in the hidden alcove behind the tapestry on the fourth floor after prefect patrols. The blonde had been hopeful and ambitiously brewed a half dozen phials of the contraceptive potion. He had four left but until he had a private bedroom, they were forced to stake out their location and planned a date for it, allowing him the luxury to take the potion ahead of time and not have to interrupt things. 

Jumping from the bed, naked, he ripped through his trunk with such ferocity he was infinitely thankful for the silencing charms. Not that Potter would interrupt them - he was smart enough to figure out what they were doing. But he still didn’t need the Gryffindor hearing him shag his best friend. He had to eat meals with the other wizard; the last thing they both needed was that kind of embarrassing baggage between them.

He couldn’t find the potions. Great. Just great. Hermione was waiting in the bed and he could see her form shifting under the blankets, likely trying to make things not feel so awkward. Could he ask her if she brought some? No, stupid. He couldn’t ask her. Of course she wouldn’t just carry them around with her when she probably didn’t even expect them to end up in his bed. 

“Draco?” 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

He threw his encyclopedia of runes, shoved his star charts to the side, nearly cracked a large mason jar of dried Indo-green kelp he’d need for potions next week. But the light turquoise potion that acted like a gate to their intimacy? He couldn’t find it. 

“If you don’t have it, it’s alright. We don’t have to-” 

“It’s in my wardrobe!” He remembered at the last minute - thank Merlin - that he hid the collection with his undergarments. Sprinting with as much dignity as he could in his naked state, he rifled through the wardrobe until he emerged victorious. “Got it!” 

When he looked at her, she was no longer lounging breathlessly against the pillows with the cutest tinge of pink on her cheeks. No, she was sitting up, casually with her legs curled under her, looking at him with calm, lucid eyes. And for a horrible second, his stomach clenched and he worried that he’d been too late. That he crushed the romance between them and the moment they had was gone.

“Potions typically work by drinking them,” she teased with a smirk, putting his worries to bed. 

He never downed a potion so fast. 

Their intimacy was just as clumsy and inelegant as the build up. And despite both of them painfully longing for the other, their approach couldn’t be more divisive. She was eager and keen, rising up to meet his falls, and he had to place a hand against her hip to slow her down. As practiced as he was in the bedroom - excluding anything and everything he endured with Rabastan - his stamina was still limited to that of a teenage boy. And while things certainly started off rocky and despairing, her empathy had eased his mind, letting him know that she didn’t expect anything out of him. 

It was only an embarrassing five minutes in when Draco had to resort to doing arithmancy calculations in his head to distract himself. Finally given a private bedroom to enjoy with his girlfriend and he couldn’t even last a considerable length of time to enjoy it. 

He lasted longer in the alcove. Irony at its best. He at least had the decency to make sure she enjoyed herself… and then some. 

Afterwards, they laid together in a messy entanglement of limbs and sheets, Hermione with her head on his chest and Draco with his hand lazily drawing invisible circles on her milky shoulder. The post coital glow wasn’t so much a  _ glow  _ as it was them both sweating and fighting to catch their breaths.

If Draco could, he’d stop time and exist solely in that moment. But he couldn’t. Soon, unbeknownst to her, he’d go into hiding. The truth weighed on him; she had no idea that when he left for Easter break, he wouldn’t be returning and he’d simply stop existing altogether until Voldemort was killed and his family deemed safe. Would the Order or at least Harry tell her then so she wouldn’t assume the Malfoys were ruthlessly slaughtered by the Dark Lord? Would she worry and fret and fight to launch a full investigation? 

Even after learning about him going into hiding, would she still fight to find him? The Slytherin found himself wanting that answer to be yes. He wanted her to find him, and if anyone was capable of doing it, it was Hermione Granger. Being in hiding could last a while, especially if the Chosen One was reduced to skin and bones and could barely function on his own. Their side of the war, their one weapon, wasn’t even in working condition, let alone a condition to fight. Hiding could last years. 

The blonde instead tried to focus on something happy. Something to look forward to. 

“Disneyland, is it?”

Hermione laughed softly, her warm breath tickling his stomach. “I can teach you about Muggle things. And if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to take my parents with us too. I think they miss doing those kinds of things with me. Muggle things, I mean. They knew that I wouldn’t be part of their world anymore when I left for Hogwarts, but I don’t think they really realized it would be a permanent move.” 

It was true. And Draco hadn’t thought of it. 

“Do they know you have a wizard for a boyfriend?”

Her unruly head of curls shifted as she nodded. But she hesitated in speaking. “That much they know.”

While she didn’t have the gall to say the unspoken, the Slytherin did. “But they don't know that it’s  _ me.  _ The Pureblood bloke that bullied you for years and called you obnoxious things. A Marked Death Eater.”

The Gryffindor pressed herself up then to level a piercing stare on him. “You’re not that same boy, Draco. And you got that Mark to  _ help _ matters — not make them worse. There’s a huge difference.” Her warm brown eyes held his grey, cool ones. “Tell me about Pureblood society. It’s only fair if you’re going to Muggle Paris and Disneyland. A compromise.”

Unknown to both of them, thanks to the heavy silencing charms cast on the bedroom, Snape had returned to the quarters in time for lunch and called for his blonde charge. The older Slytherin’s voice was absorbed in charms, leaving the affectionate teens in the dark to his growing suspicions. Even if they could hear him, though, the Malfoy heir assumed Harry would improvise to save him from the authority figure. It was a safeguard poorly built on faulty assumptions that would prove, soon enough, to be horribly misconstrued. His error was guessing the Gryffindor boys employed similar tactics and honored an unspoken ‘bro code’ that the Slytherins did to look out for their mates when with their girlfriends in their beds with the curtains drawn. Those in the common room would use some kind of Weasley joke device that would interrupt the silencing charms and warn the Slytherin boy in the bed of Snape’s approach. It was a brilliant system, and certainly - Draco assumed - Gryffindors would've been inventive enough to come up with their own warning mechanism. 

An even bigger flaw in his plan was wrongfully assuming Harry Potter was privy to them.

Draco canted a brow up at her. “You want to learn about a society that feels your…”  _ Kind _ ?  _ Type _ ? She saw his struggle, and he gave her a brief apologetic look. “Old habits,” he mumbled lamely before trying again. “You want to learn about a society that believes Muggle-borns are inferior? Seems self-depreciating.”

“We both know that’s not true and you no longer believe in that. But the… the other parts of the society. You can tell me about that.” Hermione tugged the blanket and sheet up their bodies. 

“Well, for starters, this would  _ never _ be allowed.” The blonde leaned in to steal a tender kiss from the witch, savoring the taste of her peppermint toothpaste and some kind of fruity lip balm. “There isn’t ‘dating’ in Pureblood society. Well, there is but it’s meaningless and dead-ends to nowhere. A right,  _ proper _ relationship begins with a courtship that our parents would agree on and certain… measures would be negotiated.” 

Hermione had a contemplative look as she absorbed the information like a sponge, the gap between her brows faintly creased. His quicksilver eyes swept swiftly over her still flushed face and cheeks, carefully watching for her reaction. He used to brag about his honored heritage and proud pedigree, but now he worried that it would poison the enchantment between them. 

But she wasn’t bothered; she was genuinely curious. “What kind of measures?” 

He didn’t have to think about the answer. He knew it well -- it was drilled into him early on. “How many chaperoned visits we would be allowed, where the wedding would take place, the dowries paid and what resources would be earned through the union, how many heirs would be expected…” 

“It’s a contract, then,” she frowned. “Is that what you want? Something traditional like that?” 

Once again, he didn't have to think about his answer; his response came immediately. “No. I used to but I don’t anymore. Well, not all of it, anyways. There are certain… traditions I’d like to continue to cherish.” He paused and read her reaction to make sure she was comfortable enough with the topic. The witch’s expression was still blanketed in the same cute curiosity she had in class. “A family, for example. It’s my duty to provide an heir but I don’t just want an ‘heir’. I want a family. And... I used to want to be a politician like my father, like his father before him. Constantly be in the whirlwind of highbrow society, surrounded by powerful and influential company to keep the Malfoy line elevated. I think I still want to be aristocratic like him but not for my own gain. And certainly not for the kind of benefit he sought. I’d like to use it to do something good.” 

The Gryffindor let her head slowly drop back to its resting spot on his chest, nestling comfortably against him. And his arm found her slender frame again, holding her tightly in fear that she would disappear from him and the moment would be over. It was cathartic and relaxing discussing future plans, and realizing that despite their sharply contrasting origins, they could find cohesiveness in the future. 

A future they could have together, against all odds. 

How perfect of a day it would’ve been had Draco’s teenage roommate stepped up to the plate and kept Snape away from his room. But the perfectness was broken into hundreds of pieces with a sharp  _ pop _ of the silencing charms being undone. The teens jumped and pushed themselves up to a sitting position in alarm, both reaching for their wands on instinct, seconds before the bedroom door burst open. 

If Draco had his choice between a Death Eater or a red-faced, angry Snape in the doorway, he would’ve taken his chances with the Death Eater. At least then he’d have a valid reason to throw hexes. He wouldn’t deny that the thought still crossed his mind in those awful few seconds when all three of them just stared wide-eyed at each other. 

Snape was the first to find his voice. A very loud, booming voice at that. “ _Draco_ _Lucius Malfoy_.” The middle name. That was how the blonde knew he tipped the normally composed professor into white-vision rage. It was so loud that he had no doubts the bellicose voice carried to the other half of their quarters, where his traitorous Gryffindor roommate resided. 

Good. Harry  _ should _ hear the scathing yells. It was entirely his fault. 

“ _ This _ is how you act when given a centimeter of trust?!” The black-haired Slytherin bellowed from his position in the doorway, his stance imposing and shaking with brittle rage. The accusing onyx eyes, beaded and piercing, swept from one teen to the other as if daring them to give an excuse. “And to  _ think _ you are prefects! The irresponsibility and poor judgment on  _ both _ of your parts!” 

Rolling his eyes dramatically – any more dramatic and they might fall out – Draco let out a slow sigh. His shrewd mind had already run through a few different scenarios; lying was clearly out of the question and he couldn’t dish blame to anyone right then, at least not at the moment. He still fully intended on placing blame on Harry for failing to help out his best friend and roommate. What a prat. 

“We weren’t completely irresponsible,” Draco replied arrogantly. “I used a potion.” 

Hermione ducked her head down in embarrassment and looked at her lap, letting her frizzy hair cover much of her scarlet-flushed cheeks. The Slytherin teen, though, just flatly held the stare with the professor. 

Snape’s fingers twitched, the only give away that he was considering reaching for his wand. His heavy gaze snapped to the sheepish teenage girl in desperate need to ignore the attitude from the Malfoy heir. “Miss Granger, your head of house will be notified and your punishment will be her choosing. I had always thought you to be of sound judgment, but obviously my assessment of you was far too liberal.” 

“Yes, professor,” came her small, chagrined voice. “I… I’m sorry for this.” 

“You both have thirty seconds to get dressed, but it is highly advisable that you do so faster than that.” Draco expected to be given the decency to follow the order in privacy, but privacy wasn’t a priority to the Potion Master. He merely turned around, his robed frame stiff and taut with anger. When neither shocked teen moved from the bed at first, the professor prompted them with a rigid voice: “Twenty-nine… twenty-eight… twenty-seven…” 

Using magic to summon their clothes from wherever they randomly ended up, they both sloppily tugged on wrinkled garments in hasty, disorganized movements. And while Hermione was shamefaced and silent in those seconds, Draco wasn’t taking the humiliation quietly. Had it been his own father, Lucius would’ve executed a sophisticated arm of punishment, as was his typical flair, and would’ve at least maintained their Malfoy pride and reprimanded his son in earnest after the fact and in private. 

“I’m  _ sixteen _ years old,” he argued loudly over Snape’s continued countdown as he worked the buttons up his shirt. “I’m hardly a child and have done things that are much worse than just shagging in the  _ privacy _ of my own bedroom!” 

“Fourteen… enough _ , _ Draco… twelve...” 

“You’re acting absolutely mad! I’m allowed to enjoy time with my girlfriend, you know, considering all that I’ve done and am doing. Bloody barmy-

“-seven… six…” 

“-funny how you can expect me to do some really awful things and then can’t even-”

“-three… two… one!” Snape didn’t give so much as a warning before he tersely turned back to the teens, finding them both decent. The Gryffindor was dutifully tightening her tie and trying to force some semblance of order into her appearance, while the Slytherin boy stubbornly stood with his arms across over his front, expression twisted into a soured look. “Finding your way in here didn’t seem an issue, Miss Granger, I trust you can manage to see yourself out.” 

Draco set his jaw and placed a protective hand on the small of Hermione’s back as she quickly and quietly stepped forward, trying to appear as trivial as possible and escape the mortifying situation. “I’m seeing her out.” 

The blonde didn’t get far, though. While Hermione was granted passage past Snape through the bedroom, the oily-haired professor immediately stepped directly in front of his blonde charge, leveling him a challenging glare. If the professor wanted to say something, the words were netted in his throat and only a low warning growl came out instead. Once the front door to their quarters opened and closed sharply was the path finally cleared by Snape stepping to the side, allowing the boy to stalk forward with the professor hot at his heels. 

And while the entire situation was embarrassing, it was also, oddly enough, refreshing to Draco. It was innocent fun, despite how luscious the act was, but it was something so  _ normal _ for teenagers to be caught doing. It had nothing to do with the Order, Death Eaters, capturing Snape or spying on high-profiled matters. It didn’t include taking a life or preparing himself to sacrifice his own. He didn’t have to fortify mental walls to shield his thoughts and memories and wasn’t subject to the Cruciatus for their coupling. The lecture was demeaning and he would’ve wanted to act the gentlemen and properly walk Hermione out, but even that didn’t spoil the situation for what it was. 

He felt like a teenage boy and nothing else; not a spy, not a Death Eater. Just a teenage boy caught in the whims of intimacy with his girlfriend. 

When he saw Harry, though, he still checked him roughly in the shoulder for being a prat. “Thanks for ratting me out, Potter.” 

__

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I survive on kudos, comments, and coffee.


End file.
